MARRIAGE

In Bangla, the word 'Proloy' referred to a cataclysm. But he had always been unlike his name, his personality closer to a moss-infested duck pond, so that any pharmacy owner could walk in and make his children cry. 

He went back to the drawing room and opened the drapes. The tired light of the afternoon poured in. The curious neighbours from the adjoining flats had vanished from sight. The brevity of the lunch had convinced all that fate had failed Komolika Kundu, yet again.

****   

The evening's visitors had arrived from Calcutta that morning and checked into a hotel. The prospective groom had lost several valuable years of his life to a crippling cocaine addiction. His struggles were behind him now, and he had revived interest in two early passions, music and foreign languages.

Through the week, he taught French, German and Spanish to a bunch of school students from his parents' home in a posh neighbourhood in the southern part of the city. In the weekends, he picked up the guitar to jam with a different set of learners.

Over a telephone conversation, the parents had given veiled assurances to Proloy Kundu about their considerable financial heft, and how little it mattered what their son earned through his scattered efforts. The dabbler in music and languages had chosen not to make the four-hour train journey, sending his mother and elder brother to inspect the future wife instead.

The Kundus prepared for the visit with subdued expectation. With the passing of years, there came about new and clever ways of putting people in their places, Aloka had realised. It made her pour her heart into the one truth she was certain of and prepare tiny samosas with three different fillings. One with a mash of potatoes, peas and cashewnuts, the second stuffed with spiced chicken mince and a sweet one, containing grated coconut laced with jaggery and raisins. 

The Boses, mother and son, arrived at six sharp, and kept their metered taxi waiting in front of the building. The mother looked like she had been a striking beauty in her own days but bore the ravages of time with dignity. She was plump now, with bobbed hair and dark, tobacco-stained lips. She smiled with a warmth people usually reserved for long-lost friends.

Her older son, the cardiologist, was tall and lanky and wore a formal dinner suit. He looked agitated, in spite of spending the afternoon napping at the hotel. He kept thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets as if they contained the answers to whatever was churning his mind.

The Boses were accompanied by the woman's brother, a local doctor who was helping them around town. He was around Proloy's age and had the same aging good looks as his sister. He wore a maroon sweater over crumpled grey pants.

"Your house is unusually quiet for a family your size, Mr Kundu," Mrs Bose said, once they were seated. "Where did you dispose of the rest?"

Proloy hesitated for a moment, till Mrs Bose's robust laughter convinced him that her humour was sincere. 

"The movies," he replied. "With enough cash for some Chinese food later, there are food stalls around the movie hall."

"Call me Brishti," Mrs Bose replied. She slurped on her tea and turned to Molly. "I must begin by saying, I admire you Komolika. That's your name, right? You have worn a handloom saree, as if it's any other day. No ostentation at all. Takes guts. I'm very impressed."

Molly, somewhat alarmed at the unexpected praise, pushed the platter of crispy, browned samosas towards Brishti Bose. She took up a handful and began munching on them with obvious enjoyment.

"You know how I get my sarees? Say this jamdani I'm wearing? I don't go to shops, nuh-uh, not for me. You see Komolika, I have contacts among the weavers. No middlemen, no traders. Get the best, at half the cost. In fact, that is how we'll shop for the wedding too. No off-the-shelf business for my Komolika. Such a sweet girl."

Proloy's mind started racing. He was certain that good fortune did not arrive, so unexpected and vigorous, to small towns on winter evenings. But Brishti Bose was no fraud, her expensive attire and easy grace showed that affluence did not catch her by surprise. 

This must be some elaborate practical joke, he thought, some unusual game played by rich people to pass their idle hours. He stole a glance at his wife and daughter. Aloka's eyes were filled with tears, convinced that her painstaking effort with the samosas had finally wrought its magic. Molly had retreated behind her ancient goddess persona and showed no emotion.